


Not The One With Whitney Houston And That Damn Song

by Nary



Category: Venture Bros
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock had expected the occasional killer robot attacks and radioactive mutant gorillas, that was all in a day's work, but he hadn't expected the constant <i>neediness.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not The One With Whitney Houston And That Damn Song

Brock hadn't realized when he took over "Operation Rusty's Blanket" that it would involve so much…babysitting. In retrospect, he probably should have guessed from the code name. Sure, Dr. Venture might be a genius scientist (with "might" being the operative word – Brock wasn't too sure on the 'genius' front… or the 'scientist', actually) but he was also a whiny, narcissistic, pill-popping attention whore. Brock had expected the occasional killer robot attacks and radioactive mutant gorillas, that was all in a day's work, but he hadn't expected the constant _neediness._

"Brock, does this speed suit make my ass look fat?"

"Brock, who do you think is hotter, Dolly Parton or Loni Anderson?"

"Come on, Brock, _you_ phone the escort service – they can smell fear, and I think I have to go apply some deodorant to my palms."

It was enough to make a man wish for the peace and quiet of the Cold War again.

Today Doc was on some sort of fitness kick. He'd said something about "the ladies" and "rock-hard abs" and then Brock had basically tuned him out. He spent the morning polishing the car and trying to ignore the jazzercize music. When Doc got H.E.L.P.eR to break out the free weights, though, Brock figured he'd better see what was up. Bodyguard duties also included keeping your target from dropping a three-pound dumbbell on his toe and then making you wait on him for a week while he "convalesced."

"Oh hey, Brock," said Dr. Venture casually, hoisting a plate about the size and thickness of a crèpe like it was a huge effort. "I was just going to pump some iron – you can spot me."

"Uh, sure."

"So," said Doc as he loaded up the bar with about twelve pounds on each side, "how much can you bench, Brock?"

_Four and a half times your body weight._ "A lot."

"Yeah, well, I can bench a fair bit myself. I bet I could still hit forty pounds."

"That's great, Doc." Well, for a scrawny guy whose most strenuous exercise most days was flushing the toilet, it would be. No reason to make him feel bad about himself, at least not any more than the poor schmuck already did.

Doc tried manfully, and failed miserably, to lift the twenty-four pounds he'd started with. "Hm. Weights are for sissies, anyway. Real strength is being locked in combat with your fellow man. Mano a mano, right Brock?"

"Sure, whatever."

"So let's wrestle," said Dr. Venture, hopping off the bench and taking up what he probably thought was a defensive pose but looked more like he wanted a piggy-back ride.

_God, kill me now._ "I'm not going to wrestle you, Doc."

"Why not? Afraid I know some top-secret kung pao jitsu moves that'll knock you on your ass? Because you're right to be scared." He hopped and bobbed and generally made himself look like an angry chicken.

"There's no such thing as kung pao jitsu, and besides, I don't want to hurt you."

"Oh, I hardly think that's likely. Come on!" And he jumped on Brock, clinging to him with those spindly little arms and legs.

_Just get it over with,_ he told himself, and, as carefully as he could, flipped Rusty over his shoulder and laid him out on the floor of the hangar, winding up straddling him, from which point he could have ripped out his larynx if it had been, say, an actual attacker and not his boss.

"Oookay," said the doctor from beneath him after a few moments. He was breathing hard, and suddenly Brock noticed something was sort of…_poking_ him in the thigh.

_Jesus. He's got a fucking hard-on. I thought this couldn't get any more awkward._

"Sooo," Rusty continued, faux-casually, "you wanna help me out here?"

_Please let me be misunderstanding him._ He looked down into Doc's eyes, and knew he wasn't. _Fuck._ "I, uh, Doc… H.E.L.P.eR's watching," he stammered, finding the lamest excuse ever in the history of excuses.

H.E.L.P.eR beeped politely at them and rolled off.

"There we go," said Dr. Venture brightly, and then Brock didn't have any good excuses left.

It was over pretty fast, just some vigorous dry humping followed by below-the-belt fumbling of hands slicked with a little spit, and then Doc sort of had a little seizure and spewed his load on Brock's new goddamn jeans.

"This wouldn't happen," Doc told him afterward, "if you'd just call the escort service like I asked you to."


End file.
